


The Soul-Eater Affair

by MariaPriest



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Halloween, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 16:19:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16478864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaPriest/pseuds/MariaPriest
Summary: AfterThe Re-Collectors Affair, the partners rush to Memphis, TN, to investigate the sudden catatonia of a local agent and the mysterious deaths of several THRUSH agents.





	The Soul-Eater Affair

**Author's Note:**

> A "soul eater" is a folklore figure in the traditional belief systems of some African peoples, notably the Hausa people of Nigeria and Niger. (Wikipedia)

As the U.N.C.L.E. team of Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were bypassing US Customs at the JFK airport, Solo's transceiver sounded.

Napoleon gestured for a more-restrained-than-usual Illya to join him in a nearby small alcove, relatively out of range of prying eyes and ears. “Solo here.”

“Mr. Solo, is Mr. Kuryakin with you?” queried the familiar voice of their chief, Alexander Waverly.

“Yes, sir,” answered Illya. The partners frowned at each other, both fully aware this call almost certainly was about a new assignment that would begin much sooner rather than later, which promised that recovery from poor sleep over multiple time zones unfortunately would be delayed.

“Good. Gentlemen, a rather unfortunate incident occurred in Memphis, Tennessee, last night. A number of THRUSH agents were found dead, cause undetermined as of yet. Also present at the scene was one of our own. However, the man is not communicative. Most unfortunate, yes.” A pause, during which they heard Waverly sigh. “You are to proceed to Memphis immediately. The Section II head, Mr., uh, Ambrose, yes, Ambrose will meet you at the airport. Miss, ah, Mapletree is waiting for you now at baggage claim. She will give you your tickets and valises with fresh clothing and toiletries and return your luggage to headquarters.”

“Sir, if I may inquire, why the urgency?” asked Solo with tactful caution. “Ill – Mr. Kuryakin and I haven't prepared our reports on our latest affair.” _And we're dog-tired. And Illya needs to decompress after dealing with Nazis_.

“I am concerned, Mr. Solo, that whatever happened to the THRUSH agents and our man could spread quickly to the civilian population. Get to the bottom of this. And quickly.” Waverly disconnected before hearing his CEA's, “Yes, sir.”

Napoleon returned his communicator to its ordinary-appearing pen configuration. “Sorry, my friend. No oboe playing and vodka consumption tonight.”

Illya heard the non-vocalized question of _Will you be okay?_ in Solo's apology. “A pleasure delayed is not a pleasure denied, Napoleon. In waiting, gratification will be all the greater.” 

It hadn't been far into their partnership for the too-perceptive Solo to identify that pattern of distress Illya had whenever he had dealings with Germans, Nazi or not. Kuryakin appreciated that, though sometimes – like now – Napoleon seemed to be coddling him. He needed to grow out of this childish feeling anyway. It had almost turned him into an alcoholic when he was based out of West Berlin. He forcibly unclasped his fists and willed his muscles to relax. The mission was more important than giving into the crystal-clear memories. He only hoped he could keep the melancholy at bay.

_mla roho_

Much to Napoleon and Illya's dismay, Memphis' hot and humid summer weather was continuing to assert itself in late October. It was as if they'd been wrapped in an unbearably hot and suffocating body-sized towel.

Napoleon, wishing he wasn't dressed for Europe's cooler weather, tugged at his shirt collar. “Free sauna,” he said with disgust, “without the Scandinavian beauties.” He adjusted the French cuffs that were already sticking to his skin. He used his handkerchief to wipe his brow.

“Quit complaining, my friend. I am wearing black, compounding my misery, but you won't hear anything from me.”

“My partner, the silent martyr. Hey, that's our ride.” Napoleon recognized the average-looking agent – the perfect appearance for a spy – leaning against a standard issue U.N.C.L.E. sedan. “Hurry. Maybe the car has air-conditioning.”

Illya smirked with sarcastic amusement and followed his friend. “With our luck, it won't.”

The waiting agent stood, a grin broadening as the partners grew closer. “Napoleon! Good to see you again. It's been a while,” he said in a soft Mid-South accent, which the partners found to be gentle and homey.

“Too long, Larry,” Napoleon said as they shook hands. “Larry Ambrose, this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin.”

Ambrose stuck his hand out to Illya, who promptly shook it, though a bit tentatively. “So you're our Russian agent. Glad to have you aboard. Hopefully, there'll be more soon.”

Kuryakin relaxed and sent Napoleon a wordless message of _I like him_.

“Larry was my stiffest competition at Survival School, Illya. Plus he was an excellent partner for a case we worked on together a few years back.”

Ambrose blushed lightly, though it was hard to see under the heat-reddened skin. “Napoleon is joshin' you, Illya. I was and am nowhere near his level. He had nothing to fear from me.”

“I'm sure you succeeded most admirably, Larry. Otherwise, you wouldn't be U.N.C.L.E.'s top agent in the tri-state region.”

Larry gave Illya a nod of thanks. “Hey, let me take your luggage so we can get going. The car's air-conditioner isn't the best, but any little bit helps.” He relieved both men of their overnight bags and carefully placed them in the trunk.

Illya noted the caution used, his opinion of Larry growing more positive. Who else but an exceptional U.N.C.L.E. agent would assume a fellow agent's baggage could be dangerous?

The three men piled into the car, Illya in the center back, in hopes the vent on the dashboard might actually send cool air all the way back to him. It wasn't long before he realized that was a pipe dream.

“I know y'all are on a tight schedule, so I thought we'd go straight to see Jeff Keough, Section III. After that, I'll feed y'all some good ol' Memphis-style barbecue and from there on to the office. Tonight, you'll stay in the new dorm room.”

Solo and Larry reminisced and caught up while Kuryakin watched the scenery change from rural to suburban to urban, paying little mind to the conversation. He pulled away from his sightseeing when Larry said, “Well, I guess it's time to get down to business, y'all. What did Mr. Waverly tell you?”

Napoleon responded for them. “All he said was that we were to investigate the as-yet-unexplained deaths of THRUSHes last night. Keough appears to have suffered some sort of mental breakdown. That, too, we heard, is also unexplained. He was just surveilling the satrapy, right?”

“That's right. He was detailing the comin's and goin's so we could figure out when and how to, well, attack. When he didn't report on schedule, Dan Fields and I went lookin' for him. Found him _in_ the house, pretty much catatonic.”

“Was Mr. Keough known to partake in any illicit drugs or perhaps been given some sort of toxin by THRUSH?” asked Illya.

Ambrose sighed. “Jeff's a straight arrow. A real health nut. Doesn't even like to take aspirin and won't drink more than a sip or two of alcohol and only when he has to. The hospital drew some blood to check for drugs but last I heard, no results. Couldn't find any punctures, but we can't rule out him having ingested something.”

Solo asked, “What was this satrapy's functions?”

“Remember, we're guessing here. It's hasn't been in action for very long. It's probably their headquarters for the area. It's a two-story, older house without a basement. Bedrooms have been converted to meeting rooms. Too small to be a lab or storage facility. There was a computer taking up most of the parlor. The cops let us take it to our HQ, but we haven't had the chance to play with it yet.”

In his peripheral vision, Napoleon saw excitement and hunger on his partner's face. He'd known Illya long enough to recognize that this particular hunger was a scientific one, completely different from the food one he so frequently exhibited. _Down, boy_ , he messaged. _No salivating allowed_.

Illya pointedly ignored him. “Perhaps if there is time, I could try to access the machine,” he requested. 

“Okay by me, Illya.” A moment later, Larry pulled into a parking lot. “We're here. Let's go see Jeff.”

The partners took their time exiting the relative coolness of the vehicle. Both started perspiring again within seconds yet walked briskly behind Ambrose. “Hope they have the thermostat set on Siberian,” Napoleon's quipped only for Illya's ears.

The twinkle in the latter's blue eyes was the evidence of his amusement. With affection-tinged sarcasm, he replied just as quietly, “If that is the case, I'm sure you'll complain about that as well.”

“Testy Russian,” Napoleon murmured as they entered the lobby of John Gaston Hospital, the city's public hospital and U.N.C.L.E.'s preferred source of medical care.

Ambrose wove a labyrinthine path to the locked psychiatric ward where Jeff Keough was a patient. As they waited for entry, Larry explained that the psychiatrist had determined that Jeff was not a danger to anyone or to himself. The staff had agreed to admit him to the locked ward due to his position as a vulnerable U.N.C.L.E. agent. “He's about 14 or so hours in on a 72-hour hold. Hopefully he's able and willing to talk now.”

The three agents were escorted to an exam room. On one wall was a one-way mirror, behind which sat a psychiatrist. In the center was a table constructed of sturdy, thick wood that was bolted to the floor. There were four mismatched chairs, all appearing to be too heavy to throw or break apart. There was no doorknob on their side. Larry assured them that they would be under constant visual-only observation and two attendants would be on duty right outside the door – just in case the shrink was mistaken about Jeff's being a danger.

They remained standing for the few minutes it took for Keough, who entered the room unaccompanied, to join them.

The man was an impressive figure: close to six and a half feet tall, heavily muscled with little fat, his black hair in long plaits resting on his broad chest, smoky-reddish skin, brightly colored hazel eyes shining with anxiety and terror.

Larry smiled at his colleague. “Jefferson Keough, meet Napoleon Solo” - Solo offered his hand, which Keough reluctantly took but held onto longer than was comfortable for Napoleon, especially given the man's penetrating study of his eyes - “and Illya Kuryakin.” Illya offered his hand as well, experiencing the same scrutiny as Napoleon. “They're from the New York office.”

Without hesitation, Napoleon took charge of the room. “Jeff, please have a seat. My partner and I would like to hear about what happened to you and the THRUSHes yesterday.”

They sat, one along each edge of the table, Keough nearest the door, Solo opposite him. Illya was at Solo's right, and Ambrose across from him.

Keough sighed, closed his eyes, and started mumbling sounds, possibly words, in a chant cadence, in a language unknown even to Kuryakin.

Quietly, Ambrose said, “Jeff is part-Irish and part-Choctaw Indian. I'm not sure but I think he might be prayin'.”

Napoleon nodded while Illya strained to make out anything of what Keough was saying.

Shortly, Keough stopped, opening his eyes. “ _Nalusa Chito_ ,” he said, his voice quivering with unmistakable dread. He pointed to Ambrose and said decidedly more steady, “ _Nakni. Chuka holahta_.”

Larry grinned. “You're talking! That's great!”

Napoleon smiled genially, thinking, _Wish it wasn't in Choctaw_.

Keough turned to Solo next. “ _Nakni. Hushi humma_.”

Napoleon acknowledged the words with a respectful tilt of his head, though again he hadn't a clue what they meant. Interesting that Keough had said _nakni_ to Larry and him. _A greeting?_

Keough turned his attention to Illya. He reached out with a big hand to cover Illya's folded ones. Illya flinched fractionally at the unexpected, unwanted contact but made no attempt to break it.

Jeff's eyes took on a third dimension – that of sadness – as he said, “ _Nakni. Chilita humma_.” Then after a long pause, he whispered with urgency, “ _Chulosa_.”

A sudden chill shot up Kuryakin's spine. It was as if _chulosa_ was a command, a directive, that was imperative he follow lest he suffer dire consequences. “Please, speak English, French, Spanish, so we may understand.” Somehow he kept his voice steady, not letting his dizzying, unexplained anxiety come through.

Keough nodded once as he squeezed Illya's hands before withdrawing his. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, held his hands up in supplication. After a deep breath, he began his low chanting again.

“Jeff? You okay?” queried Ambrose gently. Jeff gave no indication he'd heard his colleague.

“I think that's all Jeff is up to telling us now.” Napoleon turned his focus to Illya, paler than normal, his forehead furrowed, hands clenched tightly enough for them to appear bloodless, narrowed eyes fixed on Keough. “Illya, are _you_ all right?”

Slowly, reluctant to pull himself away from watching Keough, Illya faced Napoleon. “Of course. Why wouldn't I be?” he snapped in such a way that informed his partner he really wasn't. “Larry, is there a library nearby, one that perhaps has a lexicon of the Choctaw language?”

“Why don't we just call New York HQ and have someone research it for us?” asked Napoleon.

“Choctaw is a fairly obscure language, Napoleon,” replied Illya. “It will take them some time. And they may not be able to answer further questions that may arise.”

“Good point. Larry?”

As Ambrose searched his brain for an answer, the room took on a surreal atmosphere as Jeff's chanting continued unabated, with him seemingly not even pausing for a breath. Napoleon shuddered, while Illya tensed further.

“There's the Gaston Park Library not far from here, though I doubt it has such a thing. Maybe the librarian can refer us to a native speaker.”

Napoleon took a deep breath. “Thanks, Jeff. I believe I can speak for all of us that you'll feel, um, better soon.” He faced the mirror and signed they were done. Looking back at his fellow agents, he said, “Library it is.” The three of them stood and moved to the door.

Abruptly, the chanting stopped. Keough came to his feet gracefully and with a speed that belied his bulk. He laid his left hand on Kuryakin's chest. “ _Nashoba_.”

Illya wanted to back away, but found himself rooted to the spot as if the hand had glued itself to him with a force not to be challenged. Curiously, he felt drawn to the warmth and strength in that hand.

Keough motioned Napoleon to come closer. Once he was, Jeff placed his right palm on Napoleon's chest and said, “ _Talako_.”

A beat later, Napoleon felt a connection to Illya, different from the one they had had since very early in their partnership. This one was ethereal yet substantial, invigorating yet soothing. He locked onto Illya's eyes, now sparking with a deeper blue with an unfamiliar energy. They stayed that way while the Irish-Indian-American muttered some nonsensical sounds.

The door opened and Keough removed his hands from the New York agents. Both swayed from the abrupt termination and had to lean against the table to keep their feet. But the new connection between them remained.

“Come with me, Jeff,” said the orderly with patient kindness. “I'll take you back to your room, unless you prefer the solarium.”

Jeff bowed his head and allowed the young man to take his arm and lead him away.

Now recovered, the partners exchanged a rapid, wordless dialogue: _What was that? Unknown. You okay? Probably; you? Pretty much; do you feel what I'm feeling? Define it and maybe so. Different. Assuredly_.

Ambrose broke his stunned silence and said, “Well, if that wasn't the strangest thing I ever … Y'all okay?”

Napoleon, sensing that Illya didn't have the power to speak yet, replied with a rickety voice, “Yes. Just a little thrown by the Indian mysticism.” He cleared his throat while adjusting his cuffs. “At least I think that's what it was. Now, to the library for a little research and hopefully some answers to Jeff's clues.”

“Let's check with the medical examiner real quick,” Larry said. “Maybe he's got somethin'.”

_edax animae_

By the time the agents arrived in the city morgue in the hospital's basement, Kuryakin had recovered fully from whatever he had felt at Keough's hands. Now he was left with a prickly sense of foreboding, a frequent visitor over the years. He had learned to listen to this, despite the lack of anything scientific to explain it. He had come to believe that such a sensation was based on the unconscious integration of data gleaned from the environment and his general knowledge.

Stepping into the freezing autopsy room simply accentuated the dread he felt. It was cold and smelled of death and blood and chemicals. In too many ways it reminded him of Kiev during the war.

His partner, on the other hand, didn't appear to have any problem with anything. In fact, he let out a sigh of relief. “In Siberia at last,” he said quietly enough for Illya's ears only. “No passport required,” to which Illya gave a sardonic, impatient snort.

There were four people in the room. The medical examiner, in scrubs of ciel blue, stood next to the table on which was stretched the naked corpse of one of the deceased THRUSHes. The other two were easily identifiable as plainclothes officers, given their inexpensive, ill-fitting suits and black brogans, the unofficial uniform for the dirty work of a cop.

“Come on in, Lare,” said one of the cops. “These your fella agents from the big city?”

“Yeah. They've just started their investigation. This here is Napoleon Solo,” gesturing to the dark-haired agent, “and -”

“For real?” interjected the other officer.

Solo gave him a self-deprecating smile, which served to quash the questioner's brazen attitude. “My parents were fascinated by French history. And this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin.”

The first cop eyed him with unblunted suspicion. “Russkie, huh?”

Illya felt the need to defuse the situation before it became openly hostile. “I am Ukrainian,” he said in an untainted Cambridge accent and knowing it was highly unlikely they had even heard of his home country. Their quizzical expressions told him he was correct in his assumption. “It is always a privilege to meet other law enforcement officers.”

Napoleon covered the lower half of his face to conceal the grin that had suddenly appeared due to Illya's masterful handling of the situation and the detectives' inability to detect the undercurrent of condescension.

“Oh, yeah, us too. Anyways, I'm Detective Sergeant Danny Boyd and this reprobate is my partner, Donny Domenici.”

“Gentlemen,” chimed in the ME, “gentlemen. Let's get on with this, shall we? I've got other work to do.”

Boyd replied, “Sure, Doc. Go ahead.”

“About time,” the pathologist muttered. Louder, he said, “Keep in mind these are preliminary results on only one of the bodies. Blood and stomach contents results will take a couple days. I haven't opened the cranium yet either.” He paused. “Now, on examination, I found, well, almost nothing. No bruises, contusions, needle marks, open wounds. Normal internal organs, except for the beginnings of a cirrhotic liver. Haven't studied the organ samples yet. My assistant is preparing the slides now. At this point, I have no clue what caused this man's death, except his whole body appears to be … desiccated.”

Out of the blue, Napoleon became distinctly queasy, as if he knew the cause of death, but it was just out of reach, buried under a layer of protective willfulness. He stole a glance at Illya, who looked gray around the edges. _Are you feeling the same thing or is it just my imagination?_

Kuryakin, sensing Napoleon's eyes on him, simply nodded once and let his eyes reveal he was likely experiencing what his partner was.

“Now, I'd appreciate it if you'd leave so I can get back to work,” the ME said with stiff politeness. “I've got a tough puzzle to solve.”

Boyd said, “Thanks, Doc. Later.” He turned to the U.N.C.L.E. agents and his partner. “Let's talk outside.”

They kept it short and sweet, with Boyd giving them permission to search the house without anyone from the police department in attendance and exhorting them to share their findings, even if it was just speculation or theories.

They parted company at the hospital's main entry, with Larry waving at the detectives as they climbed into their black Plymouth Satellite.

Picking up on the dour mood that emanated from the New York agents, Larry decided to try an attempt at lightening that mood. “Can you believe the chief of detectives put guys named Donny and Danny together? Too tempting to call 'em Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”

A cold, fierce stare from Kuryakin and an exasperated glare from Solo told Ambrose his attempt fell very flat.

_pozhiratel' dush_

The librarian at Gaston Park broke all stereotypes of the profession. She was a young, vivacious, intelligent woman in her twenties with curly red hair and a curvaceous body clothed in a tie-dyed midi dress that appeared to be painted on. Her cat's-eyes spectacles were studded with a plethora of rhinestones and gaudy, over-sized rings accessorized all her fingers, excluding thumbs. When she saw Kuryakin eyeing them as she searched the card catalog, she giggled and purred, “Ringo's my favorite Beatle.”

“How nice for you,” he answered relatively amiably. “So have you found anything? Please, the matter is urgent.”

For the second time in an hour, Solo hid a growing smile behind a hand. He was enjoying the priceless interactions between the two. The woman was definitely self-possessed and fearless, which he knew to be characteristics Illya sought in the females whose company he wished to share. But he seemed to be thrown by her particular energy.

“Sadly, Mr. K, this branch library doesn't have what you're looking for. Would you be interested in talking with a Chickasaw Indian? She goes to my church. Tessie Lushanya – that means _songbird_ – Mobley is a lovely lady. She's an opera singer, but that doesn't stop her from liking the Beatles, too. And The Who.”

“The who what?”

She laughed – Napoleon stifling his own chortle – not at all self-conscious of its loud volume in a traditionally quiet venue. “The Who is the band's name.”

“Interesting. However, I'm not sure a Chickasaw Indian can help with Choctaw language.”

“Oh, but she can! Choctaw is linguistically very close to Chickasaw. Her translations may not be perfect but they'll be very close.” She jotted down the address and the directions, telling him that it was within walking distance.

Illya was not surprised to find himself wishing he had the time to converse with this knowledgeable young woman. “Thank you, Miss Connolly.” He took her left hand in his and gently pressed his lips to to her knuckles, impressed when she didn't squeal or swoon. “Perhaps one day, when I have more time and the world ...” He left it to her to fill in the blank.

The partners exited the library, Napoleon barely maintaining his dignity. Once outdoors, he blurted, “I can't believe you used the same line on her you told me you used on Mrs. Willard.”

Illya fingered away the sweat already beading on his forehead. “You have your way with dealing with the fairer sex, as I have mine.” He looked to the U.N.C.L.E. sedan to see Ambrose approaching it, carrying two bags from a restaurant. “Lunch is served,” the Russian said with a hungry-wolf baring of teeth and a brisk rubbing of hands.

They stood under a large magnolia tree to eat their barbecue sandwiches and gulp their Cokes. Illya found the cole slaw a refreshing balance to the spicy heat of the smoked pork and eagerly devoured his. Napoleon was less enthusiastic due to both the weather's suppressing effect on his appetite and his culinary preferences. Illya gladly ate his friend's leftovers plus almost all of the gigantic order of french fries. Larry watched Kuryakin in awe, hardly noticing his own food.

After cleaning up with the provided wet wipes, Napoleon groused, “Why couldn't our language expert live on the other town so we can enjoy cool air on the drive there?”

Illya finished licking the sauce from his fingers, to which Napoleon shook his head in faux disgust, before using his napkin. “Think of it as building character, my friend.”

“I have plenty of that already, _tovarishch_.” Napoleon wiped some sauce from his partner's face that he'd missed, to which Illya scowled. “Larry, you're still the appointed guide. Illya has the directions.”

Illya handed Larry the paper. “Is it far?”

After a moment, Ambrose shook his head. “About six, seven blocks. Not worth taking the car. Besides, don't know what the parking situation is like there.”

“That's what I was afraid of,” complained Solo. “Okay, Guide Ambrose, where you lead, we all will follow.”

_mangeur d'âme_

“Of course I'm happy to translate for you, Mr. Solo!” exclaimed the vibrant woman after Napoleon introduced themselves and started the purpose for their visit. He speculated that their new resource was in her mid-fifties, mostly due to some threads of white in her short, shiny black hair, certainly not because of her wrinkle-free, unblemished skin and trim figure.

Kuryakin needed no further evidence that Tessie Mobley was a singer, simply by the musical quality of her assertive speaking voice. Soprano by his reckoning.

“Come in out of this heat.” She herded the three men in and closed the door behind the last one. Napoleon sighed audibly with relief at the coolness that surrounded him. “Please, sit.” She gestured to the parlor darkened by pulled blinds and drapes against the light and heat of the afternoon. “Make yourselves at home while I get us something cold to drink. And if you don't mind, let's go with first names. I like a bit less formality at times. You may call me Tessie or Lushanya.”

The agents remained silent as they adjusted to the more temperate environment. Illya, not for the first time on assignment in the Southeast US, wondered why anyone voluntarily lived here at all, even in the winter.

Their hostess rejoined them a few minutes later, carrying a tray with four glasses and two large pitchers, sweating with condensation, filled with what was obviously tea and lemonade. Illya, who was closest, jumped up to take the tray from her but she declined the help.

“Help yourselves, gentlemen, and tell me what I can translate for you.”

Illya couldn't decide which beverage, so he poured himself an equal measure from each pitcher. As he swirled the glass to mix the fluids, he took the lead from Napoleon. “Thank you again for agreeing to assist us, Lushanya.”

“My pleasure. I'm ready when you are.”

“I believe I have the pronunciations correct but I have no context.” He took a deep breath to help draw the words he'd memorized to the forefront again. “The first is _Nalusa Chito_.”

Lushanya looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled warily. “I believe that means 'great black being.' It's folklore about a soul-eater. My tribe has one that is very similar.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about this … 'soul-eater'?”

“It's said if people allow evil thoughts or depression to enter their minds, this … shadow being would sneak inside them and eat their soul. I think it was a lesson to encourage people to avoid the bad and the sad, all for a more fulfilling life and harmonious coexistence.”

Napoleon mulled that information over silently. In short order, he agreed with Lushanya's interpretation. He also agreed with himself that Illya was growing increasingly tense. 

“What does _nakni_ mean?” asked Illya.

“It means 'warrior.' What's next on your list, Illya?”

“ _Hushi humma_.”

“Oh, that's interesting. Humma translates to red. A person bestowed with a red name is called on to act with honor and courage. _Hushi humma_ is 'bird, red.'”

“What about _chilita humma_?”

“That's 'brave, red.' Since it's a name, we can assume it's a noun, meaning warrior, rather than an adjective.”

Illya took a long pull on his lemonade tea combination to give himself a chance to de-escalate the rising tension within his mind. “Excuse me for the delay.”

“No apology necessary, young man. I'm sure you're quite thirsty.”

“That is true. Only a few more, Lushanya, and we will be on our way.”

“There's no rush. You and your friends are certainly no bother.”

“You are most gracious, Lushanya,” said Napoleon, smooth and genuine, to which the woman blushed lightly.

“What is _chulosa_?”

“It is 'peace.' I would imagine it could be used for inner peace, peace between people, between nations.”

“How would you translate _chuka holahta_?”

Larry chose that moment to uncross his legs and lean forward.

She frowned with her brow as she searched for the words' meaning. “Ah! Got it. The nearest I can come up with is 'house leader.' Someone in charge of an office, I think, in modern-day context.”

“What of _Talako_?”

“That one's easy. It's a boy's name meaning 'eagle.' Eagles in virtually every Indian culture are symbols of peace. They are carriers of spiritual messages between humans and gods. In my tribe in Oklahoma, Talako is rarely given. It's reserved for those who have, shall we say, a silver tongue? I'd think it would be appropriate for officers of the peace or negotiators and the like.”

_That fits Napoleon like a glove_. “Now we are at the last word. What is the meaning of _Nashoba_?”

“That's a boy's name as well, meaning 'wolf.' As with eagles, wolves figure prominently in Indian culture. A boy is named Nashoba if he shows exceptional courage, strength, and loyalty. It is also given to those who've shown great success at hunting.”

_If that doesn't describe Illya to a T, then nothing does_ , thought Solo.

“Thank you, Lushanya,” Kuryakin said. “You have been most generous with your time and knowledge.”

“It was my pleasure. So glad I could help a little. If you have any further questions, please call me.” She withdrew a business card from her apron pocket and handed it to him. “My local number is handwritten.”

After finishing their beverages, the agents left with more thank-yous, with promises to heed Tessie's admonishment that they not over-exert themselves.

_devorador de Almas_

The U.N.C.L.E. men decided it was the better part of valor to go to HQ to avoid the worst heat of the day. Another important reason was to give Solo the opportunity to explore privately the gathering turmoil he sensed in his partner.

The U.N.C.L.E. office was in a strip mall in mid-town. Not surprisingly, it was fronted by a Del Floria's tailor and cleaner. On one hand, Kuryakin always thought that was a good idea, considering how frequently agents needed their clothes repaired and cleaned on short notice. On the other hand, it made it much easier for THRUSH and other criminals to locate them.

As in every U.N.C.L.E. secured building, the badges 11 and 2 were reserved for Solo and Kuryakin. Despite Napoleon's engaging smile and forward lean, the receptionist handed him his badge, as she did for Illya.

Illya gave him a _tough luck_ shrug and smirk; Napoleon gave him a playful swat to his arm.

Ambrose, carrying their baggage, showed them to the dorm, a large room with a table for six, four small bureaus, two sets of bunk beds, a wall phone, a small refrigerator, and an entry to a community shower and toilet.

“I imagine you'll want to shower off that travel and change into fresh clothes. Leave your clothes on the table; I'll have Ramona pick 'em up and take 'em to Del's. Cold drinks in the fridge. Any questions?”

The partners were already removing their jackets. Napoleon asked, “Any chance the shower rains ice cubes?”

Ambrose laughed. “Still the joker, Napoleon. When you're ready, I'll be in my office. There's a map of HQ in the top drawer of each chest of drawers.”

Scant minutes later, their clothes in an organized heap on the table and their holstered guns on one of the top beds, they headed for the shower.

“How's the ankle you hurt on that dismount from the pommel horse?” asked Napoleon out of necessity. Being in top shape frequently made the difference in staying alive.

Illya growled. “It is better than when you asked me the last time. It was a simple, uncomplicated strain. No doubt you haven't noticed that I haven't limped for at least a week.”

“Just checking. We don't know what we're getting into so we have to be at the top of our game.”

“Your statement of the obvious is getting on my last nerve, Napoleon. Now please let me shower in _chulosa_.” On that word, both men shivered. Illya, eyes wide in bewilderment, stared at Napoleon.

“Ah, did you _mean_ to say that?” Napoleon somehow knew what the answer would be, what with Illya's uncertainty crashing into him.

In a small voice, Illya replied, “I'm not sure.”

Solo readily admitted to himself he was spooked and concerned. Were either one of them fit for this mission? _Any_ mission right now?

“We have to, Napoleon.” The voice was still small but confident, strong, yet lined with tumult. “We must. You know that.”

They held each other's gaze for a full minute, exchanging something between them neither could explain.

“Let's finish up here and then we'll talk.” Napoleon didn't bother with hot water.

oOo

After they were dressed in more appropriate clothes for their current location, each one thanking Mapletree for her foresight, they laid down on one set of bunk beds by unspoken agreement, Illya vaulting effortlessly to the top one. For some reason, it was becoming difficult to look directly at each other; the intensity when they did was overwhelming.

Solo, hands clasped behind his head, began the conversation. “Do you believe Keough?”

“If you mean if I can extrapolate anything from what he said, then yes, I believe he experienced something that he thought was a 'great black being.'”

“Does that mean you think soul eaters could exist?”

Illya snorted in derision. “There is no scientific evidence to support that notion. It is folklore, composed to shape behavior or teach or explain the natural world that was not yet understood on an intellectual basis.”

“Some myths and legends do have some level of truth in them, don't they?”

“Yes, but they are often shown to be skewed greatly once the reality on which they were based is revealed or discovered.”

A long stretch of silence followed, except for the hum of the refrigerator and their breathing, which they didn't realize had become synced.

“Illya, do you -”

“Feel different?” he completed for his friend. “Yes. I cannot explain it. I want to, but for some reason, I don't think I should.”

“I'm _positive_ Keough did something to us. Ever since he touched both of us at the same time, I feel like we're kind of … linked? Converging? Overlapping?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Napoleon,” Illya said, though there was a lack of conviction in his voice.

“Then why do I feel your brain turning into a tightly wound spiral? Why do I feel this, ah, build-up of … _energy_? And not just in you, but in me, too.”

Another long stretch of silence followed, ending with Illya responding in a hush, “I feel it as well, my friend. I feel the need to fight and protect growing in me and in you a … 'buzz' of words that I can't read or hear. Or explain.” He sighed. “This is quite … frustrating.”

“And scary as hell. I'm thinking about contacting Waverly to ask him to pull us off this -” Before he could finish his thought, Napoleon was struck with a stabbing pain deep in his gut. He gasped, curled into a fetal position, tried to speak, but there was no need; Illya had already jumped down and was kneeling beside his bed.

“I will get you some help,” declared Kuryakin, his own voice wheezing from the lesser pain he was experiencing in his abdomen.

“No,” Napoleon squeezed out through gritted teeth. “Let me … try … something.”

Illya nodded and unwittingly placed his left hand over his partner's heart.

“I'm wrong,” Napoleon panted. “You were right. We must do this,” he said with true sincerity.

As quickly as the pain had hit them, it was gone.

They shared a deep breath of relief, during which Solo, unaware of the act, placed his left hand over Illya's heart. Their eyes met, and neither could pull away despite the escalating intensity of whatever was happening between them.

Once Napoleon caught his breath, he said, “Something strange is going on, and we don't have a clue what it is. All I know is that whatever Keough did to us, it was for a reason. A very good one. I know this … _weirdness_ doesn't sit well with your scientific, logical brain, partner mine, but you _know_ we have to complete this assignment.”

Illya nodded slowly, almost painfully, as his brain waged war with itself, trying to make sense of this reality, if it was real, to come to grips with this insanity they were experiencing.

Napoleon gently pulled Illya's head down to his until their foreheads touched. He tasted the dark gloom, the desperation, growing in his friend, and it threatened to pull him in, to break his heart. “ _Chulosa, Nashoba_ ,” he whispered.

It took a few minutes for Kuryakin to compel the melancholy to back down. He moved his head to lay it on his left hand, which was still over his friend's heart. He inhaled deeply, then fell asleep on the exhale. After shifting his hand to keep it on Illya's chest, Napoleon, despite his astonishment and worry about the power coursing through his friend, followed suit within seconds.

oOo

The phone rang, jolting both of them awake and reaching for their weapons, which were still in their holsters atop one of the beds. They exchanged chagrined looks. Illya sat on the floor to give Napoleon room to get out of bed and answer the phone. He took the opportunity to rub his knees back to life. It would be a few minutes before he'd be able to stand and walk.

“Solo here,” Napoleon said into the handset. He listened for a time before saying, “Thanks. We'll be there in a few minutes.”

Illya was sitting on the bed when Solo hung up. “That was Amelia, the receptionist. Larry is on the way to Tupelo on urgent family business. He took his personal car and left us the sedan. One of the Section III agents made us a map. If we want, we can ask anyone in Section II or III on duty to join us.” He looked at Illya noncommittally, happy to leave that decision to him; after all, the way things had been going, it was likely Illya would take the brunt of any unpleasantness.

“I think not. It is too risky, given the deaths that have already occurred and Keough's state of mind. However, perhaps two of them could be a short distance from the house. I will keep my transceiver open.”

“Good idea.” Napoleon checked his watch. “Let's grab a bite to eat, then time it to get there a little before Keough was found. Might as well see if time of day has anything to do with it.”

“Agreed.” After several heartbeats, which were synced between the two men unaware of that fact, Illya said, “We will have our answers soon, I think.”

Napoleon shrugged into his shoulder harness holster. “I should hope so.”

_mai cin nama_

Meyer from Section II and Henderson of Section III parked two blocks from the former satrapy. Kuryakin pulled alongside their car so Napoleon could give last-minute reminders: keep Channel M open; approach only if they heard anything untoward, including gunfire, or on his or Illya's order; report anything unusual or suspicious moving in the direction of the house. Finally they ensured that Kuryakin and Meyer's communicators were properly receiving and transmitting.

As Illya accelerated away, Meyer said, “You get the impression that those two don't _need_ to talk to each other? That they can anticipate each other's moves without skipping a beat?”

Henderson nodded his agreement. “Sure do. Given what I've heard about them and their missions, they must or they'd be dead already.”

oOo

The THRUSH HQ was one of a number of houses in a block adjacent to the Elmwood Cemetery. Illya parked the sedan on the street in front of the house. Both men stepped out into the twilight without saying a word to or looking at each other. There was no need; they were more attuned to each other more than they'd ever been.

Napoleon checked his watch – 6:30, just past sunset and into twilight. He was pleased with the timing, as Keough and the dead THRUSHes had been discovered about 8 PM.

Their eyes were drawn to the cemetery. The fading light gave the angel sculptures, tree stones, and obelisks bodies of slowly evolving shadows. Soon only the weak street lights, not the early waxing crescent moon, would be the only thing illuminating the cemetery. After a moment, they turned in unison and strode vigorously to the house side by side.

Neither man noted the holographic-like eagle flying and wolf trotting behind them.

After Illya yanked the yellow-and-black crime scene tape away, Napoleon opened the door with the key Boyd had given him. Guns still holstered, knowing they'd be useless but not knowing how they knew this, Napoleon entered while Illya turned to walk in backwards right behind his partner. He saw something moving between them and the cemetery but again knowing, without knowing why, it was expected.

Solo had gone left by the time Illya turned back around once across the threshold. He went right after closing the door. Their companion creatures moved through the wood and steel and glass as though the structure was made of air.

The agents remained in the dark, finding they didn't need light to see.

oOo

“Hmm. Wonder why there's static?” Henderson asked as his communicator hissed and crackled.

“Got me. Electrical storm moving in maybe?”

“Should we go see if they're okay?”

Meyer pondered the suggestion briefly. “Naw. Let's give it a minute or two, see if it clears up. If mine isn't working either, then we go chargin' in after 'em.”

“Fine by me. I hear Kuryakin's responsible for developing the pen communicator. Maybe I'll get him to take a look at mine later.”

Had they gone to the satrapy as Henderson proposed and looked in a window, they would have seen the New York agents standing shoulder to shoulder and motionless in the entrance hall.

oOo

Immediately they entered the only empty room on the first floor – the parlor, where the computer had been. They stood there, feeling the charged atmosphere surrounding them. The rest of the floor appeared lifeless and blank to them.

Illya started the thought conversation with, _Certainly not due to the electromagnetic field of the long-gone computer, Talako_.

_What do you think it is?_

_Nalusa Chito, of course. Perhaps its remnants. Should we invite it to join us? Perhaps it needs permission to enter a house like a vampire_ , Illya said facetiously.

Napoleon snickered his amusement. _It's near, I think. How about we make it official._ “Let's meet and chat, Nalusa Chito,” he said aloud.

Together, they looked out the front window. They weren't surprised to see a darkness greater than midnight rise from a vault. It was a shapeless blob, but they knew it would eventually morph into a large humanoid shape.

Napoleon said, _Halloween's a bit early this year_ , hoping to ease just a little of the tension that continued to build in Illya. Like the source of his Choctaw name closing in on its prey, the Russian's body radiated his readiness to pounce on the blob before it could reach the house and him. He put a restraining hand on Illya's forearm. _Let it come to us. We want the power balance to be in our favor_.

Illya, thirsting for a fight, reluctantly nodded and relaxed a minute fraction. Napoleon was right. They needed every advantage they could get.

_Ready, Nashoba?_ Napoleon asked unnecessarily. He watched, awe-struck, as the golden power that glowed around his partner pulsated. His sparking eyes, were once again the deep blue they had turned after Keough's touch.

_You know I am_ , he sniped impishly. Illya smiled at the red-tinted cream color that was his partner's aura and relaxed a bit further.

The distant sound of glass breaking snatched their attention away from the approaching blob.

_Second story break-in_ , Solo stated the obvious. It was what he and Illya had done a few hundred times so as not to be seen making an unwelcome entry.

_THRUSH no doubt coming to see what happened last night_.

Now they drew their guns, flicking off the safeties. They re-entered the foyer. Solo moved to the left of the staircase, Illya to its right, switching his Special to his left hand.

They could see nothing at the top of the stairs. They held their breaths as they waited for the intruder to show. They didn't have to wait long.

The THRUSH appeared, gun ready to fire. But in the instant before he pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession, the agents felt a stiff breeze coming from partway up the staircase and heard a faint squeaky chirp.

The breeze was strong enough to divert the bullets from their intended targets and into the hardwood floor past the U.N.C.L.E. agents.

“What the hell!” exclaimed the THRUSH. “Get it off me!” He waved his arms around his head as if he were trying to brush something away. The agents then noticed the shimmery bald eagle.

Illya's aura changed to a deeper gold, and his need to act spiked exponentially. A millisecond later, they heard what sounded like nails click on the stairs then saw a Russian wolf. The THRUSH shrieked this time then shouted, “Let go of my leg, whatever the devil you are!” Finding the pull irresistible, he clambered down the steps and dropped his weapon on the way. He sat down hard on the second step from the bottom. “What is going on?” he pleaded, voice shaking as if it was a leaf caught in a strong, shifting current of air. “I can't see diddly-squat. Will somebody turn on the lights?”

Napoleon and Illya tucked their Specials away at the same time. Being unwilling to giving the THRUSH any advantage, turning on the lights was not going to happen. Besides, they could see fine.

The EM charge they'd felt in the parlor was now noticeably much stronger. There was a smell that came with it, not ozone as one would expect, but an earthy, moldy, sharp odor. The eagle quickly came to perch on Napoleon's left shoulder, while the wolf nudged Illya's legs far enough apart for him to stand between them.

_It's here, Nashoba_.

_What do we say and do?_

_It'll come to us?_

_I hope by 'it' you mean an idea, not the beast, Talako_.

The “beast” showed itself at the parlor threshold. It was huge in height as well as width – about nine feet tall, four feet wide. Its body was topped with a slightly asymmetrical head on a stalk of a neck in proportion to the rest of it, except for spindly, finger-less arms. It was legless, as if it were wearing a floor-length dress. Instead of a distinct outline, it was feathery, reminding them of a fluffed-up bird. Although they were expecting it to be black, they were struck by the dullness of its onyx hue.

A rumble began to grow in what could be considered the soul-eater's throat. “You have summoned me. Though you are not of my people, I have come,” its voice evoking fingernails scratching a chalkboard. It raised its right appendage and pointed the stump at the man on the stairs. “I am called to rid the earth of your evil spirit.”

The THRUSH turned an ashen gray, gave a choking sound, and grabbed his chest. Moments later, his heart stopped. His body, dead from fear, fell forward to land face down between the two agents.

Nalusa Chito turned its harsh attention to Napoleon and Illya. Neither man wavered.

“You that beckoned me have barbarous souls as well. I do not understand why you want to feed me, but I will consume your spirit as evil has no place in this world.”

Without hesitation, Kuryakin advanced swiftly on the black being; he was determined it would not even touch Napoleon without a fight. The wolf stayed with him, always in contact with at least one leg.

Abruptly, he was enveloped by the beast. He gave an ear-shattering, bone-rattling, mind-melting howl as he felt himself being stripped and ripped naked on the inside, his organs and tissues and blood vessels being dissected by hands of coldest ice, hottest fire, and acid and alkaline burning. And the discordant voice of the beast in his head proclaiming that there was another reason to eat his spirit made him realize his brain was close to exploding.

Illya longed for the worst torture he'd ever endured before this. In comparison, that torture was pleasurable.

Napoleon, feeling every aspect of the indescribable agony his partner was experiencing, only less so, fell to his knees. He could feel Illya weakening, growing more despondent, his concentration stolen by the torment. He had no idea what to do or how to help Illya.

The wolf snarled and sharply nipped Illya's heel. Illya, yelping, turned some of his concentration to the new pain. He saw Napoleon kneeling, moist eyes revealing a panicky inertia. Hurriedly, Illya threw a shield between his own agony and Napoleon in an effort to soften his vicarious experience so Napoleon could get on with his part of the mission.

At the same time, the eagle tightened his grip on Napoleon's shoulder, which served to focus the man.

Both tactics worked. Napoleon wobbled to a standing position. _Nashoba, you are nakni. You are chilita humma. You are rare in your courage and strength. Use that_. Then, with all the considerable strength within himself, he added, _Chulosa, partner mine_.

_Talako_ , Illya replied faintly, the tone expressing gratitude for the reminder of his strength and to master his despair, as he had done earlier in the afternoon. He knew that only moving to a state of greater tranquility could he survive, which was finally clear to them both – persuade Nalusa Chito it was no longer needed and could now rest. Illya was to buy time for Napoleon to convince the soul-eater to leave. He fought to keep the beast from devouring him, from pulling Napoleon into its sphere.

The beast backed off from Illya's vicious attack but did not release him. Illya, now more motivated from this small victory, battled with greater ferocity.

Napoleon knew Illya was relatively safe, which gave him his voice. “Nalusa Chito, we called you to ask you to leave this world forever. You have served well in devouring evil and sadness, but now we humans must take that on ourselves. Your time has passed.”

“I know nothing of this thing you call time.” It paused. “You are incapable of doing what must be done. There is evil in you both and great sadness in this light one, so how can you eat yourselves?”

The eagle nudged Solo's head with its beak after a long pause from the _hushi humma_.

“Ah, all humans have some evil within. We know this now and most of us keep that part of ourselves ... subdued. People like Nashoba and me fight those who let their evil dominate them, Nalusa Chito. We, and many others like us, work to stop these people without killing them, to put them in places where they can no longer harm others with their evil.”

“So the lesser evil fights the greater evil?”

“You can say that.” Napoleon took a deep breath to hide his hesitancy in what he was about to ask the beast to do. He hoped he and Illya could live with any repercussions as a result of that intimate, unwanted intrusion. “Look in Nashoba's memories and mine, Nalusa Chito. These will show you what we do.”

Illya's excruciating wail of _Nyet!_ lacerated Napoleon's soul. Both were very private men and to bare their pasts to some _thing_ was unconscionable even in its necessity.

Kuryakin fought even harder, hoping to eradicate the beast before such a horrific breach could happen. It ignored his increased onslaught and expanded itself to include the human known as Talako.

Napoleon, though braced for it, nonetheless screamed at the brutality of the violating darkness wrapping him in its clutches. It would've been worse had Illya not extended his formidable presence, the energy to do so supplemented by the wolf who now stood on his hind legs behind his human, with his paws on Nashoba's shoulders, to ease his partner's considerable suffering.

Nalusa Chito opened their memories with abandon. The agents took cold comfort in the fact that their memories scrolled at inhumanly fast speeds. At most, they were left with hazy impressions of each other's lives. Yet they were left disturbed at their pasts, ashamed of some of the things they'd done, despite that their motives had been based largely on survival, prevention of atrocities planned, retribution for evil done, U.N.C.L.E. values.

The beast kept Napoleon within its hold. “What of those with great sadness? Are they put in such places as the evil ones?”

“Some are, but we've discovered ways to help them. You must have seen how Nashoba has ways to help himself. None of them deserve to have their souls eaten. Their souls simply need repair, Nalusa Chito.”

They were convinced they had lost, because the beast continued its attempts at consuming their essence, held off only by Illya's fierce stubbornness. Napoleon added what he could to Illya's efforts. The eagle emitted a plaintive piping sound, the wolf whined, as they began to despair.

What seemed like days later, Nalusa Chito retreated far enough to uncover the two agents, whose hair and clothes were drenched with sweat. They struggled to remain upright.

“You are right, Talako. Humans alone must deal with the malevolence and the sadness within their spirits. My 'time' is no more.” Nalusa Chito retreated further, becoming smaller and smaller, passing out of the house the same way it came in, then heading to the cemetery. By the time it reached the crypt from whence it rose, it was the size of a button. Then with a soundless poof of ashes, Nalusa Chito was no more.

The partners faced each other, not saying a word because they were depleted. They stepped away from the body of the THRUSH to stand in the middle of the hall.

Neither seemed distressed or even surprised when Napoleon's hands turned into talons, Illya's into paws with extended claws. Eyes locked on the other's, they came together, Napoleon placing his talons on Illya's shoulders and Illya gripping Napoleon's suit lapels with his claws. They helped each other kneel on the floor. With a triumphant but exhausted huff, Illya rested his forehead on Napoleon's sternum. Smiling rather than sounding his pleasure at their victory, the senior agent put his chin on Illya's wet head.

The wolf stretched his body over the backs of Illya's lower legs, while the eagle crossed his wings atop Napoleon's head. Slowly, they began to remove the memories of all that happened with the soul-eater, adding something to take its place in their minds. They removed the body of the THRUSH. They severed the special connection the partners had, leaving them painfully bereft, but reassured them that feeling would fade eventually. They removed the gifts they were given through their Choctaw names. As they did all this without ever losing physical contact with their human counterparts, the animals became more and more translucent, until they were no longer even a thought.

oOo

Just as Meyer was getting ready to open Channel M on his communicator and order them to head for the satrapy, the static on Henderson's transceiver disappeared. “Guess I won't have to get Illya to look at this gadget after all.”

They heard Solo's distinctive voice and relaxed, though they stayed ready to move if needed.

oOo

Solo and Illya found themselves standing in the foyer, in clothing stained only with underarm perspiration, and hair damp around the edges.

Solo checked his watch again – 6:33 PM. _We sure took a long time getting into the house_. “Okay, partner mine, let's have our little look.”

Silently, Kuryakin flicked the overhead light on. “This should help.” He drew a flashlight from the recesses of his coat and turned it on. “So will this.” He played the light on the floor until a defect halted his search.

“Napoleon,” he said, letting his tone say that he'd discovered something.

They examined the defect, quickly determining it was man-made. Illya checked it for booby traps. When he found none, he nodded at his partner. Together, they eased the floor door up and away to reveal an old, small metal canister.

“Careful,” Napoleon breathed unnecessarily as Illya lifted the cylinder from its hiding place.

“We should be safe. The meter indicates it's empty.” Kuryakin looked for markings and was soon rewarded. “Ah! This is of German origin, World War I era. Probably the last of its kind. I don't recognize the 'brand' name of the contents. And there is no chemical name. I doubt there's even a molecule left to analyze. Still, we should box it up and send it to the nearest U.N.C.L.E. lab. Dallas, I believe.”

“So last night it released the last of its contents and the THRUSHes dried up. Somehow Keough wasn't affected. Lucky man.”

“Agreed.”

Solo spoke louder, “Meyer, Henderson, you there?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Meyer.

“Grab a tarp and duct tape and join us. We've got a present for our boffins in the Lone Star State.”

“On our way.”

oOo

Henderson carried the gas canister from the house, followed closely by Meyer. Kuryakin and Solo held back to take one last look.

“You know, _tovarishch_ , I feel as if something really … special is just gone,” Napoleon said, sounding as forlorn as a foghorn on a misty night.

Illya sighed. “I feel the same, my friend. I also feel … that this uncomplicated mission can't account for how tired I am.”

“You, too, hmm? Well, let's go before we sweat through to our suits.” Illya left the satrapy a step ahead of Napoleon. “Hey, wait a minute. Do you know your suit has” - he paused to touch and count marks on the shoulders of Illya's jacket - “at least six holes along the back? Rather odd, don't you think?”

“What is one more odd thing in our bizarre lives, Napoleon?” He turned to face his friend. “Earlier I noticed your lapels are a disgrace. They have holes in them as well.”

Napoleon gave Illya a playful shake of his fist. “Why didn't you say anything then?”

“I figured to give you a brief reprieve from the worry you'll surely experience as you anticipate how to explain this damage to your coat.”

“How thoughtful of you. You're in the same boat, you know.”

“But my clothing is inexpensive.”

“Cheap, you mean.”

Illya snorted a laugh. “Let's go. I'm famished. Maybe we can find a restaurant with a walk-in freezer we can use while we eat.”

Napoleon chuckled at his permanently hungry friend. Then his brow furrowed as something occurred to him. “Just one last thing, Illya. How and _when_ did our suits get ruined? They were undamaged when we put them on.”

Illya, feeling a sudden sprouting of goose flesh over his entire body, said, “Or perhaps it best we go directly to the airport to catch the next flight going anywhere.”

“I think that's the best idea you've ever had, IK.”

the end  
copyright 2018

**Author's Note:**

> The Choctaw words and their meanings were taken from several websites. I took very little license with them in the writing of this story.
> 
> Translations from Google Translate for _soul eater_ (heading for each section)  
>  Mla roho = Swahili  
> Edax animae = Latin  
> Pozhiratel' dush = Russian  
> Mangeur d'âme = French  
> Devorador de Almas = Spanish  
> Mai cin nama = Hausa  
> Any mistakes are Google's.
> 
> Tessie “Lushanya” Mobley was an American operatic soprano (one-quarter Chickasaw) who was born and raised in Oklahoma. She adopted the name “Lushanya” early in her career. She became known as the “Songbird of the Chickasaws.” There is no evidence she ever even visited Memphis, much less lived there, so I took some liberties for the purpose of this story.
> 
> Elmwood Cemetery, where I used to go with friends whenever we craved some creepiness in our white-bread lives, is a major part of the history of Memphis. The sculptures, vaults, and headstones are beautiful works of art and architecture. [This site](http://www.historic-memphis.com/memphis-historic/elmwood/elmwood.html) has photographs and a short history of the cemetery: 
> 
> Many thanks to CoriKay for her brilliant beta of this story.


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